Scorpion Ships

Megan

Walter smiled at me - a weak, shaky smile as he walked out the door. I smiled back, trying to get over my jealousy of Paige. She was a wonderful woman who deserved him, and he definitely deserved her. They were very cute together.

I told myself this as I lay in the hospital bed, pain coursing through me from my hip. Of course I'd downplayed it while they were here - who wants to let their brother and crush know they're weak?

"Okay, Megan," purred the stocky nurse who was supposed to be monitoring me. "I'm going to bring you in to the x-ray room so we can take a look at that hip, yes?"

"Sure," I grunted, reaching for my crutches - the new, improved ones I had insisted on after Happy told me what crap the old ones were.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the nurse said, still smiling unnaturally wide. "For now, you'll be using this." She wheeled a wheelchair into the room and presented it like it was a throne.

I looked at her with disgust. "I think I'm okay, thanks."

"Nope!" she said cheerfully. "Hospital rules - when we don't know what the problem is, it's always safer to go with a wheelchair."

"Yeah, well, I've got a bruised hip and MS," I muttered, getting exasperated, "so I think I'm good."

"Oh, dear," the nurse gasped. "A bruised hip, hmmm? Then what's that?"

When I'd reached for the crutches, my shirt'd risen up, revealing a huge discoloration covering half my rip cage and my hip.

I winced. "A bruise?" I tried.

"Nice try," the nurse said sternly, her good mood evaporating. "Get in the wheelchair."

I hesitated. She glared.

"Get. In."

I got in.

It was actually rather comfortable, but I didn't want her to know that. She wheeled me down the hallway, and I sighed, resigned to even more attention than I usually got. I could feel the last few people leaving staring at me, wondering what was wrong with me and if it was contagious. Wondering if I'd live and who took care of me. None of it was any of their buisness, but they wondered anyway.

Thalia had had some interesting thoughts on the subject.

"Screw 'em," she'd always laugh when she caught people staring, tossing long blond hair over one shoulder.

Remembering Thalia made my eyes well up with tears. It was impossible that she was gone - erased, except for my memory. She was like my sister - even Walter'd liked her, as much as he liked anyone.

I threw the thought of Thalia away. I silently promised myself I wouldn't think of that shooting again - not until I could without crying, not until I could without breaking down. Not until my injuries were healed. Or I was dead.

I yanked my tears back into my tear ducts, even more embarrassed now. I hated sympathy. I was a strong kid, I'd been told since I was first diagnosed. I intended to keep it that way.

"Okay, sweetie!" The nurse chirped. She was beginning to annoy me. "Here we are!" She wheeled me into a dark room with an x-ray, and I sighed as she helped me out of the wheelchair and over to it.

I zoned out as the thing whirred over me, remembering the feel of Sylvester's hand in mine. So soft and warm - shaky, a bit, because of his endearing nervousness. It surprised me how much I liked him - after all, I'd only know him for a few weeks. But I suppose in my life, a few weeks could be all I had left.

The whirring of the x-ray stopped, and I fought to sit up, pushing the moving thing away.

The doctor and the stocky nurse were in an office connected to the room, and the doctor looked concerned - probably a bad sign, but doctors always looked concerned around me. Another side effect of MS.

"Okay-Megan, is it?-well, I've got good news and bad news."

I nodded. That's what they all said.

"The good news is that you're not dead, and this won't kill you." He smiled at me, like this was news.

"Immediately," I muttered under my breath. Besides, this was nothing compared to MS.

"Right. Well, the bad news is. . ." he hesitated, looking at the nurse. "Well, you've got two broken rips, and possibly a punctured lung. It's. . .well, it's a wonder you're not coughing up blood."

It annoyed me how much he was saying 'well'.
Then what he said hit me. "Wait, a punctured lung? You can fix that, right?"

He coughed uncomfortably. "Yes. Actually, it's not terrible. It's a very small puncture. It may not collapse; it's probably going to heal on its own. But we'll need to keep you here under observation for a few days."

I couldn't even react. "And my ribs?"

"Right. Well, they're only cracked, so they'll probably heal on their own as well in a few months. We'll need to keep ice on it, and a few painkillers? Lots of bed rest." He looked at the nurse, who jotted something down on a clipboard.

I nodded. "Okay. Why can't I just go home?"

"We need to keep you under observation," the nurse jumped in kindly.

"Fine," I said wearily. "Please take me back to my room. . ."

She helped me back into the wheelchair, and we began the trek back to my room.